


i pick my poison

by fuckup



Category: Divergent - All Media Types, Divergent Series - Veronica Roth
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Peter is his own warning, Radical honesty, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, i mean really is it soulmates or is it just erudite, low-key abnegation solidarity, p sure peter is demisexual, slowburn, the soulmate au nobody asked for
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-05
Updated: 2018-01-12
Packaged: 2018-11-09 14:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11106267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuckup/pseuds/fuckup
Summary: It is not selfish to be Marked, although on the surface it seems to me like it should be. Taking the serum to get your skin Marked with the person you are best suited for… it makes me squirm, and cast my eyes down, away from the slowly emptying room of my peers.AKA: An AU where another element in the Chicago experiment is scientific match-making.





	1. i could have

**Author's Note:**

> Title and chapter titles taken from 'Poison' by Rita Ora.

**TEST DAY: BEATRICE**

The Marking. In the scheme of things, it’s new. The Choosing Ceremony and the Aptitude Tests that surround them span back as long as anyone can remember; they’re fact. But The Marking, that’s only been around for as many years as it takes for the Abnegation to decide it’s not gossip to admit hearing about it. Gossiping is self-indulgent, and above all, Abnegation must not be that.

(I’m selfish, so I mustn’t be Abnegation. I have sixteen years of proof of that, so why does it still feel less like proof, more like an excuse to do what I want?)

It is not selfish to be Marked, although on the surface it seems to me like it should be. Taking the serum to get your skin Marked with the person you are best suited for… it makes me squirm, and cast my eyes down, away from the slowly emptying room of my peers. Unlike with mirrors, I have no urge to look back up and see what’s in front of me. What if my Mark isn’t in Abnegation?

(Worst still: what if my Mark is in Abnegation? How much worse a person would that make me, to choose a Faction that doesn’t contain my family or my Mark? Even my mother would be ashamed.)

Does the Marking happen first, or does the Aptitude Test? I ask Caleb what he thinks, and the look he gives me reminds me of our father; crinkled forehead, a slight shake of his head that means _quiet_. I’m not meant to ask, or question, or wonder. I’m meant to be a pond, still on its own, only disrupted by the ripples of others. That’s what I’ve been taught, by my teachers, by my mother.

(It works. Sometimes, it works. There’s an empty space in my head for when I need to bite my tongue, and I’m there now, hands crossed over my lap, blinking steadily, until —)

“From Abnegation: Susan Black and Beatrice Prior.”

I get up because I’m meant to get up. Walk at an even peace to the testing room because that’s what I’m meant to. I see Susan shoot me a smile, just the right side of nervous. Susan’s hands are still like a pond, not fighting not to tremble, as mine are.

(Is it the Marking first, or the Aptitude test first? Answer: It’s both. I dip my non-dominant hand into the serum that will Mark my skin with who I am most suited for, and keep it there while I swallow down a vial of liquid that must be to do with the Tests. I understand now why it’s required we all go to the bathroom before the testing room).

The test… The test. It was meant to _tell me_ , but it doesn’t. I fail the unfailable test. I am Erudite, I am Abnegation, I am Dauntless. 

(Divergent. I am Divergent.)

“...Divergence is extremely dangerous. You understand?” Tori is telling me, insisting, in a voice that is calm like ice is calm. Our faces are inches apart.

“Okay.” I say, although I don’t understand at all.

I go to unpeel herself from the chair I’ve sunken it, but Tori stops me, putting pressure on to my damp wrist, where is a Mark is forming, one I can’t make out yet. I’m relived it’s coming, and worried it’s not here yet; what if I fail at this too? “Following your Mark would be safest. I suggest you go home, and think about all of this…”

(The Mark on my wrist comes in less than twenty minutes later, when I’m walking home. It feels like the scraping of nails over my wrist, like a pinch hard enough to tear my skin off. I don’t cry. I pull my sleeves down with the tips of my fingers to cover it, grateful just this once for how long Abnegation's sleeves are).

“Are you going to tell me the truth now?” Caleb asks me, quietly, before we’re close enough to our parents that they can hear us.

I look back at him, and tell the only truth I’m willing to. We keep it up, lying and skirting truths, him with a smile, me with the blank set of my lips, to each other, to our parents. Until it is time to sleep, to reflect, to look at the names on our wrists in the solitude our parents allow us.

(‘Peter’ is as much of a Candor name as Beatrice is an Abnegation. One of only two Factions I am definitely not, and the person I’m most suited to be with is one of them. I remember what Tori said, about it being safest to follow my Mark, and think this would be a good time to laugh).


	2. beer for breakfast

**TEST DAY: PETER**

I was done first, then Drew. It’s Molly we’re waiting on. Drew’s having a smoke, and I’m most definitely not. It looks cool, but it’s hell on your lungs, and I’m planning on being a Dauntless leader. I'm me. Five years, tops, and I’ll have it in the bag.

Drew knocks his thigh against mine, and I look up to see Molly storming towards us. She shoves her way through a pair of Amity to get to us. It makes me chuckle, and Drew wheeze his laughter out. 

As a greeting, Molly grabs for my right wrist. I’m faster than her and see it coming, so I’m already standing up, uncoiling myself into a stretch, and her hand swipes at thin air. She bares her teeth at me in a grin and _goes_ for me. We grapple, but now I didn’t expect her to go this hard. She has me pinned up against the wall and people are _looking_. I’m flushed red, communicating with a glare that she’ll be paying for this. 

“What’re _you_ doing with a Stiff name as your Mark?” Molly says, and stretches my arm out to show Drew, who stares at it soundlessly. Drew knows how to keep his mouth shut, a rare trait here.

I flick her off and snatch hold of her other wrist, turning it over to see ‘Peter’ in the same smart print as mine. The urge to double-check my own Mark pulses through me, but I don’t. It’s been literal seconds. Mine won’t have changed. Whoever Molly’s Mark, it’s not me.

I release her like it’s nothing. “The serum must think I deserve someone else to do my bidding without complaint.” I pick at non-existent dirt under my fingernails to further complete the picture of carelessness. I don’t even mention the possibility of there being Priors other than the Counsellor's, that’s how little I want to seem like I care. 

Molly snorts, and then grins at me. She knows I mean Drew, but so does Drew. He doesn’t care. He also doesn’t offer up his own Mark, so I leave it. He’ll go where I go.

All three of us make our way out of the testing building and start the meandering path back to Candor, spreading out over the sidewalk with me in the middle. “You’re not transferring to Abnegation, though.” This from Drew. It sounds flat, like a statement, but it’s not. That’s how he asks questions.

Molly guffaws, “Yeah, right. Peter in with the Stiffs. He’d go mad.” 

I look up at the sky in this way I know makes me look pensive. Mysterious, even. I’ve already disregarded that idea, but it’ll be fun to see if I can get them to buy into it. “It’d be easy to get to the top there.” I say idly, which was my thinking for the three minutes I actually considered it. The most believable lies are the ones that involve truth.

I fall back to get away from an elbow in the ribs from Molly. She scowls at me, and I start to whistle.

Drew drops his cigarette butt on the ground. Without looking at him, I know he’s taken another cigarette out of its carton, put it back, done that a couple more times, and is about to start flicking his lighter on and off. 

The hiss of the tiny flame starts up right on cue. So does Molly.

“I’m not being one of _them._ ” My eyes track the spittle that comes out of her mouth with the force of her snarl. Drew flicks his lighter back off, is a good boy, doesn’t speak up. “I’m not. That’s not the plan, Peter. That’s never been the plan.”

When I deem to look over at her, my second best friend, she’s got her arms crossed over her bulky chest. Like she thinks she’s the kind of girl I don’t have time for, who throws tantrums instead of solid punches. I pretend at being surprised, at being _concerned_ , “The plan was always going to factor in the Marks. Did you think I wouldn’t?”

Molly doesn’t learn much. She answers me back. “Not like THAT.” 

I wait until we’re almost at the alley, and then I click my tongue against the inside of my mouth. Drew knows a signal when he hears it, and speeds up a few steps. Not far enough ahead to lose the thread of our conversation, but so he’s out of the line of fire.

I dip my eyes down, quite deliberately, to her left wrist. My name, but not me. I casually bring my wrist up, making sure Molly gets another flash of my own Mark. ‘Prior’, not ‘Atwood’. Meet her eyes and laugh under my breath.

She comes at me, and I drop down into the proper stance. It’s easy to grab her outstretched arm, use her own weight against her to spin her around, over my hip and on to the ground. Out of friendship, I don’t stamp on her hand — even though she’s slow to get into the turtling position, I don’t want her with a broken hand in time for Initiation. I aim a kick at her head, instead, and hold back a grin when I feel my sneakers connect with her skull; if we get caught, I can’t look like I was enjoying myself.

If we were somewhere else, I’d sit on her legs so she couldn’t use them against me, not just step back so the attempted kick to my groin goes wide. If she were someone else, I’d take as many shots to her face as I could, when she was trying to get up. But if she was someone else, I would’ve gone straight for the liver shot, and she’d still be on the ground. Not growling at me, hair in her face, eyes too unfocused for it to be a proper glare.

Molly spits on the ground between us, and there’s no blood in it.

The hiss-flick of Drew’s lighter. “You’re even, now.” 

Molly doesn’t say jack shit to that question. She knows better than to think it’s up to her decide when we’re square. They both wait — Molly breathing hard — while I math it out in my head: goading her into rushing me compared to her attacking me without reason, my name on her wrist when there’s some Stiff girl on mine, the public spectacle she forced on me, the shame I dealt her... Since she counts Drew as public, that makes us even in all but one aspect.

I stroll deeper into the mouth of the alley. When I turn around, Drew is closer to me than Molly is. I lick along my own lip, tasting the phantom of blood. I don’t relish this, but even’s even. “Make me bleed, and we’re square.”

Molly straightens her shoulders up, steps in my space and socks me, right in the mouth. I grunt, and swallow down the taste of copper. When I spit, I spit blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo stoked to write about the beautiful monstrosity that is Molly/Peter/Drew friendship, ydefk.


	3. my sanity for lunch

**7 DAYS UNTIL THE CHOOSING CEREMONY (AM): BEATRICE**

I’m Abnegation. For today, and the six days that follow it, I am still Abnegation. I can’t figure out what I feel about that. Gladness, that I have some time left with my family? Or guilt, at the possibility that thrums through me, watching the Dauntless tumble off the train this morning? I don’t know. I don’t know.

I walk into school with Caleb by my side. Already, I see the differences with my year-mates. It’s not just the Erudite who are full of curious glances for each other. For the names that are now on everyone’s wrist. My Mark is covered by the long length of my sleeves, but it’s not the same for the other Factions. Many are uncovered. Those that aren’t seem to by accident rather than design — a Dauntless girl wearing a leather jacket, an Amity boy with a row of well-worn friendship bracelet. 

Only the Abnegation’s Marks are covered up without fail. Only the Candor show off their Marks with a brazenness that borders on the obscene. Though my head is bowed, my eyes slink over the wrist of every Candor boy I see on my way to English, looking for my own name. 

It could be that Peter isn’t the same age as me. The range for Marks is three years in either direction. If he’s younger, he won’t have his own Mark yet; if he’s older, he’ll already have declared for a Faction.

I still look. This is the boy who is meant to complement me, who is meant to bring out my best, as my parents do for one another. Tori said that following my Mark is the safest. With all of that, how can I not be curious?

I realise that I’m angling my head to try and see the name on the wrist of a Dauntless boy sitting ahead of me and to the left. That the Dauntless boy has _noticed_. I cast my eyes down to my desk and write mindless notes. But there this nagging voice in my head that said the Mark on his wrist looked like it could’ve been ‘Prior’.

I give in, keep my face still but flick my eyes up, so I can observe the Dauntless boy from under his eyelashes. He has dark skin and dark eyes. Handsome. I’m wondering if to tilt my head to look at his wrist again, when I see that it’s already held at an angle that makes the name on it plain to see: ’Pine’. The wrist wiggles, and my eyes fly up to see him looking at me.

He mouths ‘You?’, and I shake my head before I have time to even think about the fact that I’m actually having a conversation of sorts with a Dauntless. He doesn’t look surprised that I’m not his Mark. But he doesn’t look away from me, either. What he does is nod at my wrist.

I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t. He’s definitely not my Mark, there’s no reason for it. None at all, except he’s asking, and he’s Dauntless, and no one in Abnegation would ever ask to see someone else’s Mark. Not even if they thought I was theirs.

I shouldn’t, but I do. Unbutton the cuff to my sleeves, push it up and turn my hand around, baring the name on my wrist to eyes that aren’t mine. His eyes skim over at it, and then look back at me. For no reason I can understand, he winks at me. 

I look quickly down, heart thundering in my chest at doing something I definitely shouldn’t be. For the first time that day, I feel good. I feel brave. I should button back up, but instead, I roll my sleeve back so my Mark is exposed.

I am selfish.


	4. trying to

**7 DAYS UNTIL THE CHOOSING CEREMONY (AM): PETER**

The ceiling above my head is black and white stripes, which means we slept at Drew’s. Makes sense. Smoke by the window. Hot breath on my neck. Drew’s up, Molly’s not. I roll off the bed and go straight for Drew’s attached bathroom. I don’t talk to anyone before I’ve brushed my teeth. Bagging first shower is just a right; Drew never goes first when I’m over, and Molly never wakes up early enough to contest it.

“What’s up, little brother?” Even through the bathroom door, I can hear Josh about to start on Drew. I still, mouth full of watered down toothpaste, waiting to see in what context my name comes up. “Hayes not around, so Atwood have to top you on her own tonight?”

Nothing I’ve not heard before or care about correcting. I spit into the sink and rinse my mouth out. I glance at the mirror, and get drawn in by my split lips.

“Not going to say anything? C’mon. Which of them is your Mark?”

I run my tongue along my teeth. They’re better than fine. Molly didn’t hit me hard enough to knock any out. Only fair. I didn’t kick her hard enough for a lasting concussion.

“Are you man enough for Atwood, or woman enough for Hayes?” 

Turning the shower on drowns out Molly’s snoring, but it takes cranking the spray up as high as it’ll go to silence Josh’s voice. Aside from me, Drew and my mom, every Candor that’s going seems intent to make their voice as loud as possible. I can’t hear him anymore, but knowing he’s still out there is enough to annoy me. An easy fix.

I slam the water off. Right away, the _talking_ is audible again. I raise my own voice, sharp and controlled. “Drew. Come here.” An abrupt silence. No sound of moving. I click my tongue against my cheek. “ _Now._ ” 

The bathroom door opens and closes behind me. I start the shower up again. Once the water’s in the sweet spot between lukewarm and hot, I step back into it, relaxing into the pounding it gives my muscles, in the _quiet_ that comes with Drew being out of his brother’s reach. The only sounds are Drew flicking his lighter, and me getting myself off. I’m not thinking about anything in particular, just wanting to get rid of my morning wood.

After I’ve came, I stay in there, eyes closed, taking long, deep breaths. There’s never this much hot water in my house. 

Molly has to ruin it by barging in, calling next, already stripping off. Candor’s got no big thing about nudity. We’ve got even less when it comes to the three of us. ‘The Westermarck effect’ my grandfather says. He used to be Erudite.

I towel off in front of the open window. By the time Molly’s out of the shower and all three of us are dressed, I’m yawning. “I might skip and go back to bed.”

Molly sneers at me. “I’m not picking up your packet on the Stiff for you. Drew can’t, neither.” 

My fingers clench around, trying to reach the skin of my wrist. I’d forgotten. I’d _fucking forgotten_ that I have a Stiff’s name as my Mark. It’s ridiculous. What am I doing with a Stiff name on me? Who even breeds with a _Stiff?_

Molly looks at me, and shakes her head. But she doesn’t say anything. Neither does Drew.

I don’t even remembering us getting to school. All the time I didn’t think about having a Stiff Mark this morning in the shower, last night when were were drinking, all of it seems to be coming at once now. Even now, my eyes slide over the morons dressed in grey. 

I bump into one by accident, and then do it again on purpose, smiling when he drops all his books. Molly treads on each of his books, one by one, breaking their spines, and I chuckle, as Drew’s shoulders shake with silent laughter. It makes me feel a little better. I can walk all over a Stiff. I _will_ walk all over this Stiff, for the week that I know her. Think about it. Who ever heard of a Stiff transferring Dauntless?


	5. get over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should probably do a disclaimer: don't own Divergent, or anyone in it it. Just borrowing them all for no profit whatsoever. 
> 
> Standard warning for Peter being Peter.

**7 DAYS UNTIL THE CHOOSING CEREMONY (PM): BEATRICE**

It’s compulsory that our Marks are recorded in a database. I’m worried that my Mark coming in late is another sign of my Divergence, but when the teacher calls for people who haven’t had their Mark entered in yet, I am not the only one to raise my hand. In a class of fifteen, there are six of us. The relief is almost physical, a fist released from around my heart I didn’t realise was there. We can’t all be Divergent.

Teacher Donovan appears entirely unfazed. She checks her wrist-watch, blue and shiny with an over-sized face I can see even from my seat, in the last row of the classroom. “That’s to be expected.” She says, and doesn’t explain further. Some Erudite like to explain every last detail, while others like to leave people hanging for more, to further drive home the point we’ll never be as knowledgeable as they are. I could never be one of them. “Go to the end office now, so all the packets will be ready by sixth period.” 

I stand up, and walk slowly to the door, with my head down. I’m waiting for the last student to walk on through the door ahead of me, when I realise they’re doing the same. I look up, and see Susan, smiling at me. Neither of us move. There are titters from behind us. I’m sure this’ll be a joke, if it already isn’t. Two Abnegation being unable to walk through a door. 

I throw myself through the doorway before this can go on any longer. I should wait for Susan. I don’t. These are the times I — no, I don’t hate my Faction. I just wish I wasn’t part of it. I wish I knew how to be Abnegation.

Wishes are self-indulgent. Even in wanting to be better, I am not enough.

“Beatrice?” Susan’s soft voice is hitched, out of breath with the effort to catch up to me. “Your Mark…” She trails off, and it comes to me — she is embarrassed for me. She thinks that my Mark showing is a mistake. 

With her eyes on me, it doesn’t feel like how it did with the Dauntless boy, not something that is mine to show off as I please, but something deeply private it’s shameful for others to see. I shove my sleeve back down. I am selfish, not brave.

She gives me a gentle touch to my shoulder, which makes me look at her again, surprised. We do not touch each other casually. Not in Abnegation. Susan gives me a slight smile, and drops her hand back down. “I don’t have an Abnegation name, either.” Her voice is so low, the words so completely unexpected that I’m sure I have imagined it — but she looks mortified, hesitant, in a way that makes me just as sure I haven't.

Susan has never confided in me before. Why would she now? The pulse in my wrist seems to jump, as if answer. Our Marks.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to look…” She sounds horrified with herself. “It was just there. Beatrice, I’m so sorry.” 

I realise that I have stopped walking, that both of us have. The rest of the group have along since gone, and only we remain. The urge to ask to see Susan’s Mark niggles at me, even though I couldn’t. I couldn’t. She may have touched my shoulder, but that’s a long way from showing me her wrist. Susan is a proper Abnegation girl. Not like me. And still, I whisper, “What name?” 

Quiet as a mouse, and quick as one, too, like she’s been waiting for someone to ask. “Albert.” 

The Faction that favours names that celebrate light and dark, black and white, clarity and truth, is Candor. And Albert means ‘bright.’

We look at each other. Both of us Abnegation girls, with the name of Candor boys on our wrists. I don’t bring up Caleb, who I thought would be Susan's Mark.

“Maybe they’ll come to us.” I have to lean in to hear her better. From the outside, we must look peculiar, like two Amity girls, heads pressed together in conversation. 

“Albert will.” My voice can’t match hers for quietness, though I try. I’m sure he must. Susan’s other half, her Mark, could only be someone else meant for Abnegation. Transfers to us from Candor are not common, though they’re not unheard of. Not like an Abnegation leaving for Dauntless, which I don’t think has happened for decades. People don’t leave Abnegation. I don’t think it’s even occurred to Susan that I might.

Susan lets out this little puff of breath that I think might be relief. “Thank you, Beatrice.” Her eyes flicker, and guilt passes across her face, so blatant it’s like a shout. “I’m sorry for troubling you with my concerns. It’s unfair of me.”

I shake my head, follow her into the rhythm of selflessness I can never find on my own. “Thank you, for giving me the opportunity to help you.” We give each other quiet smiles, and move on to the end office, where there’s a line out the door. 

Even counting the people from other classes who have been sent to the end office as well, we are the only Abnegation here. Most are Amity or Erudite, though one is the same Dauntless boy from this morning. He gives me a grin and a swipe of two fingers in some kind of wave. No one else notices us. 

I start at the recognition; to most, one Abnegation is the same as the other. He doesn’t seem to notice, and neither does Susan. I don’t know if to be glad, that she’s gone back to being a proper Abnegation girl, with a quiet expression and an averted gaze, not curious about my acknowledgement from a Dauntless. 

By the time I sneak another look at the Dauntless boy, he’s gone. I feel a twinge of disappointment, and look quickly back down to the ground. 

“Just go ahead of them, Drew. They’re Stiffs, being pushed around is what they’re here for. Right, Stiffs?” I’m used to being casually dismissed or even ignored. The outright derision in the boy’s voice makes my eyes fly up to to find the source.

There’s two Candor boys coming up behind us, one redheaded and built like a boulder, the other almost a foot taller than me, with dark, shiny hair. The dark-haired boy has a split lip and a purpling bruise on his chin. I can’t tell which of them spoke, though they’re clearly friends. I don’t want either of them to go ahead of me. Of us.

But Susan is behind me, and she is placidity itself. “Please, take our place in line.” She says, and moves aside to give them space. 

Abnegation behaviour dictates that I do the same. I don’t. 

“Problem, Stiff?” The dark-haired Candor boy’s voice is casual, familiar. I meet his eyes, and he stares back at me. This is the boy who said Abnegation were meant to be shoved around.

I set my jaw. 

His hands slam up on the wall, either side of my head, like he means to frighten me. I stare back at him, unflinching. My pulse is thundering in my throat, in my wrist, and I want him to try and hit me. It should shock me, a thought like that, but it seems only natural. He’s taller than me, bigger, and the state of his face speaks to experience with fighting that I’ve never had. Still something in me demands he try.

He doesn’t. He crowds into my space instead, the closest any boy that isn’t my family has ever been to me, and Caleb would never lean into me like this, his eyes pinned to mine as he lowers his face to mine. I jerk back away from him, curling back up against the wall and turning my face away, so he can’t kiss me.

I hear laughter, low and deep. “Thought so.” The hands bracketing my head drop away, and I stay still until he’s backed away from me. “Like I’d want to touch a Stiff. Come find me when you’re done.” I dart a look at him, but it’s the redheaded boy he’s talking to now, me already forgotten. 

When the redheaded boy — Drew — shoulders into the space ahead of me, I let him. I move back, closer to Susan, who takes a small step away from me. Now that the other Candor boy is walking away, I’m aware of delighted whispers and side-ways looks from the people ahead of us in the line.

The next time I see him, he has a white, wide smile. The next time I see him, he’s a photograph in a info packet given to be by the middle officer. The Candor boy who hates Abnegation is Peter Hayes. My Mark.


	6. how bad

**7 DAYS UNTIL THE CHOOSING CEREMONY (PM): PETER**

 

“You really did get a Stiff, Peter.”

“She looks like that girl from when we were in line.”

“Well, _yeah_. All Stiff girls look alike, that’s their MO.”

Of the three of us, I’m the only one who comes away from the Middle Office with an Info Packet in hand. Drew gets told to check back next year, so his Mark’s younger than him. Definitely makes me laugh. Thought for sure that he’d get some older woman to boss him.

Molly’s even less lucky. The fit she throws when they tell her her Mark’s declined to share his info with her is hilarious. It keeps me and Drew entertained waiting for Faction History to start, the only class we all have together.

“‘Least he won’t be a Stiff.” She snarls at us, making a muscle tick in my jaw. I could break her nose.  Molly and Drew understand me better than my own mother, so they’ve got some idea of where I’m at right now. Still don’t want them realising how much it bothers me that I’ve been shafted with a Stiff.

“I’m not having the same conversation with you that I had yesterday, Molly.” I tell her idly. It makes her scowl. It also makes her shut up.

“What’re we going to do with her?” Drew sounds more animated than normal. It reminds me he’s into girls’ and their bodies in a way I never have been. I look at a girl, I scrutinize her for insecurities I can use against her, same as I’d do with any boy. I half-thought I’d have to fake a Mark.

“Yeah, Peter, what’re you going to do about the Stiff?”

They’re both looking up at me, waiting for instructions. We’re in everything together. Unless Molly’s on her high horse, it’s just what we do.

“Why’re you three talking about doing anything to an Abnegation?” A loud, brash voice says. Butting in where she’s not wanted is just what Christina Glass does.

“What do you think?” I ask, and hold a hand up when Glass opens up her mouth. “Wait. Just remembered. I don’t care… Molly, do you care?”

Smirking, Molly shakes her head side to side. I turn back to Glass, eyebrows quirked.. “And Drew agrees with me, which makes three people who don’t want to talk to you, so…” I make a shooing motion. The laughter I get is gratifying.

“I hope all three of you fail initiation and become Factionless.” Glass says cheerily.

Molly takes a step forward, hand curling into a fist, teeth bared in a kind of grin. “You want to say that again after school?”

My eyes wander to the desks surrounding us, clocking Erudites who will know to keep their mouth shut, and the giant redheaded Candor whose stones have been living in the Stiff’s ceremonial bowl for as long as I can remember. Other than him, we’re the only Candor here. No one else has arrived yet. I tilt my chin from Drew to the door. If Molly wants to go, I’m not going to stop her. What else is the week before the Choosing for?

“ _Peter?_ Of course your Mark is him.” Glass laughs. If she wants to think that Molly and I are Marked up, all the better for me. “You’ll have ugly, soulless children. Just what the Factionless needs more of.”

“You don’t think I’m physically attractive?” I ask, and smirk when Glass’s eyes flash with hatred. When we were thirteen, a class-wide game of Truth revealed she thought I was the most physically appealing of the Candor boys in our year. She wasn’t the only girl who said that, but she was the only one who looked deeply disgusted by herself when the truth was Candor’d out of her. I like to bring it up when the time feels right.

“Not anymore.” She says, through gritted teeth.

I tut. “That’s the kind of lie that’ll kicked you out during initiation.”

“Somehow I don’t think Dauntless will care.” The look on her face confirms that she didn’t mean to say that last part out loud. I’m sure it’s not just me and Molly who are staring at her. Faction Transfers happen with some regularity in Candor, often to Dauntless, but it’s not something you talk about outside of family and close friends.

“ _You’re_ trying to get into Dauntless?” Molly asks, incredulous.

It actually makes a kind of sense. Nobody else has been so stupid as to repeatedly bother us as Glass has. It’s stupidity, but it’s a Dauntless kind of stupidity. “You know black and blue aren’t actually Dauntless’s colors.” I tell her casually, and let my eyes creep over her body, scoping out her weak spots. The way she angles her left wrist away from me as good as screams _vulnerability._ “You might be confused because that’s what your skin’ll look like when we’re done with you.”

Molly snorts with laughter, Drew hums a warning in the most off-tune way possible, and I swivel back forwards in my seat.

The teacher comes in just as Glass kicks the back of my chair. It’s beautiful timing. Donovan takes one look at her, shakes her head, and sends her to the Principal. I dimple a smile at her as she sees herself out.

I don’t pay much attention after that. When it becomes clear Donovan’s not going to tell us jack shit about Marks I don’t already know, I switch off totally.

A Stiff who could be an Erudite is more respectable than any other kind of Stiff. Which isn’t saying much, but it’s the promise of something to play with. Someone. Maybe she’s even got the hint of a backbone to snap. Doubt it. Once a Stiff, always a Stiff.

I’m still going to pay her a visit.


	7. i want you

****

**6 DAYS UNTIL THE CHOOSING CEREMONY: BEATRICE**

****

****

You’re meant to keep your info packet safe, but I don’t. I don’t want his picture. I don’t want my mother or father to see this. I don’t want them to think that I (might, maybe, could) choose Dauntless because of this boy who looks kind but is clearly anything but.

 _I don’t want, I don’t want, I don’t want_. I should be ashamed of myself. 

I slide the laminated card further into the jaws of the kitchen scissors and cut the photograph into thirds.

“Beatrice? What are you doing?” Caleb. I don’t need to look over at him to know that he’s frowning at me, displeased and long-suffering. I don’t know if my brother knows how to sound any other way, not with me.

I’m wrong.

“ _Beatrice._ ” Horror is thick in my brother’s voice, as thick as blood, as he sees what is in my hands, and what I’m doing with it. “You can’t — stop that.” 

He reaches for me, and I jerk away from him. I’m flushed. This is _wrong_. I know this is wrong. But I don’t want this. I can’t have this. 

“It’s mine.” I don’t know who I am, speaking like that, with such possession in my voice. From the look on his face, I can tell Caleb doesn’t either. “I can do what I like with it.” 

Caleb is shaking his head. But he doesn’t try and take it from me again. “Have you at least read it first?” 

“Yes.” Every word. It’s seared into my brain, it has to be, the knowledge that general consensus among my Mark’s teachers is that he is _**’charming, intelligent, a credit to Candor’**_ **.** This boy can fool Erudites and make it look easy. 

“Children?” We start, the both of us. That’s our mother’s voice coming from downstairs. She sounds pleasant, mild and _curious_. 

(“Never met a curious Abnegation before…”)

“Beatrice, could you come down here? You have a guest.” 

We trade a swift look, my brother and I. There’s only one reason I’d have a guest. Only one person it could be. My fingers tighten on the handles of the scissors; I nearly wish it was the blades. Blood would make it easier to focus.

“Go, Beatrice.” Caleb says to me, under his breath, and takes my info packet from me. Tries to take the scissors. “Give me those. I’ll get rid of them.” 

I can’t move. _Why_ is he here? 

(“They’re Stiffs, being pushed around is what they’re here for.”)

“ _Go._ ” Caleb puts a hand on the small of my back, but it’s not that that propels me forward. The thought of Peter anywhere near my mother is what does it. 

I set my jaw. Give the scissors to Caleb and _move._ Half-way down the stairs, I realise I’m moving too purposefully, and I hasten to slow my pace, and duck my head. I could walk through my house with my eyes closed and not bump into anything once.

I don’t know what I’m expecting to find. Maybe some part of me knew it would be this: My mother regarding Peter with the correct amount of warmness, and Peter, hands jauntily clasped behind his back, pleasantly saying, “I’d love to, m’am.” 

I don’t know for sure what he’s agreed to, but I can guess. In Abnegation, it’s tradition for Marks to cook together. Everything I think about Peter agreeing to it is is uncharitable. This close to my mother I should feel it, the faint sting of guilt for being so malicious in thought. I’m not.

My mom sees me first. She holds a hand out to me, and I go to her. 

Peter’s eyes are a heavy weight on me; I can feel him watching, observing, judging me and finding me wanting. For one of the first times I can remember, I’m glad that it’s custom for Abnegation to show deference as a matter of course. It gives me an excuse to move past Peter without looking at him. If I did, right at this moment, I think I might try and hit him.

My mom clasps both my hands in hers. “You know who this is.” She says, with the same beautiful simplicity my mother does and says everything. I flick my eyes up at her, in surprise at the comforting touch as much as anything else. My mother is affectionate by Abnegation standards, but taking my hands in front of company — non-Abnegation company — is something new. I never expected this would be her reaction to a boy in Candor black and white turning up at my door. She smiles at me, as if she knows what I’m thinking, and gently squeezes my hands in her own. “Why don’t you take Peter to the kitchen, and make us all dinner?” 

It’s a good question. Why _don’t_ I? 

(“Problem, Stiff?”

“Thought so.”

“Like I’d want to touch a Stiff.”)

But this is my mother, who I might leave soon. So I nod, and her eyes crinkle. “I’ll be upstairs, to see if Caleb would like to speak about his day.”

I breathe out. I dip my head in thanks for this gift she thinks she is giving me. I am Abnegation: I indicate where the kitchen is, and then let Peter lead the way. It’s better this way. Even in my house, I don’t think Peter is the kind of person it’s wise to turn your back on. 

The kitchen door shuts behind us with a faint click.

“So, Beatrice, what’re we going to be making?” The black eye he had yesterday has yellowed. His eyebrows are lifted in gentle inquiry. The black jacket he’s wearing, the white t-shirt, black jeans, black boots with white laces, all of it is so connected to truth and order it’s jarring. I don’t know if he doesn’t recognise me. Maybe he just thinks I’m too dumb to see the difference in his behaviour.

I get into his space, as close as he was to me yesterday, and I see his expression shift once, and then again, this time just in his eyes. “I know who you are.” I don’t say it out as loudly as I mean to, so I raise my voice. “I know what you think about Abnegation.”

The look on Peter’s face is too calm to be real. “And what do I think?” 

I’m not going to say it. Any of it. There’s a twist of his lips that says he wants to hear it from me, even knowing I don’t believe it; all the terrible things about my Faction I know are in his head. “Get out of my house, Peter.” I move away from him, and his arm jerks a little, like he might stop me. He doesn’t. “I don’t want you here.” 

Unlatching the back door means turning my back on him. There’s a prickling on the nape of my neck. I’m sure he’s staring at me. His tread is light on the floorboards, but every step reverberates through me like a solid stamp. His breathe is on my neck, his hand gripping my arm, and his voice a venomous hiss in my ear, “I don’t want you anywhere, Stiff.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.. this update took way longer than it was ever meant to be, because... Real Life, and also because I got majorly sucked into writing a HP/X-Men Fanfic, and because I vaguely hate the format/pacing I've established for this fic. BUT WHATEVER, it's meant to be an experiment in 'care less, just write'. 
> 
> Hope you liked it okay :)


	8. so much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Radical Honesty does not always make for the best parenting, guys. Warnings for that.

**5 DAYS UNTIL THE CHOOSING CEREMONY: PETER**

As soon as my house keys are on the hook, my dad’s on me. “Peter! What happened to your face?” Booming voice, thick eyebrows and a complete inability to keep a single thought in his head; thy name is Clem Hayes. It’s past 12am. I didn’t come home the last couple of nights and have my Mark. And yet, this is what he asks me.

“I told Molly to hit me.” The truth slips off my tongue as easily as the lie that follows it. “We were practicing for Dauntless initiation. She needs it.”

I hang my jacket up in my room, and then loop back around to the kitchen, taking the stool opposite Dad, who is frowning hard over some paperwork. “I don’t like the thought of you transferring into Dauntless.” I palm a red apple from the fruit bowl and polish it with the end of my shirt. “I think I will like the reality even less… but I thank you for your honesty.”

My old man will let me get away with anything, as long as I tell him the truth afterwards. I lie to him anyway. I don’t know why. Good practice? Boredom? He believes me more often than he doesn’t, so why not? I press the apple to my mouth, set my teeth to its delicate skin, and think about Prior. 

No one but the two of us knows what happened in her kitchen. She won't tell anyone (who would she?), so she can't show me up. That would be unforgivable. She's not that far on my shit list just yet. What should I _do_ with her? It should be something entertaining. Not just for me. For Drew and Molly as well.

“...see Joanie again.” 

I snap my attention back to Dad, who hasn't stopped talking since I got in. I do a little mental backtrack to see what else he's said. Nothing comes to me. 

“What about Mom?” I don't need to check myself; I know I sound like I couldn't care less. 

“She says she'll be over more, once you've gone.” Dad says casually, too occupied by drawing diagrams to give a shit about what hearing that might do to me. “Your brother’s very pleased about it, very pleased indeed.” 

The apple juices go sour in my mouth. I chew through it, angling my head away from the mirrored kitchen tops, so I don't have to see if my face is mottling red. “Where is Ern?”

“Asleep.” No hesitation, not even that moment of faith where he makes the active choice to believe his commitment to honesty. “He didn't feel up to work today… You know how he gets.”

I roll my eyes. He doesn't notice. I can't begrudge him that. Unlike my mom, he doesn't acknowledge much difference between me and Ern. It makes him stupid, but it's the kind of stupidity I don’t mind. 

He keeps talking, and I keep not listening. Mostly. I sit with him until I've bitten three apples down to the core. My fingers are sticky with juice that I suck off. I have the sharp urge to spit, or call up Molly or Drew. 

“Who does Mom think my Mark is?” I’m speaking before I realise what I'm asking and who I'm saying it to. Too interested. Too courteous. Most of the teachers at school swallow that shtick. They’re not Candor. I draw a breath and flick my eyes down, so he'll think I'm embarrassed.

Dad looks— surprised, thoughnot entirely displeased. I don’t ask about my Mom too much like I care. “She doesn't think you have one, son. She has some thoughts, your mom. They're not mine.” There's silence for long enough for me to know for sure I have him on the hook.

I tap my fingers against the kitchen table, singularly, and then in a fist. “It's a Stiff.” I want to let loose a winsome smile, but this is Dad. This is Candor. I have to wait.

“Your Mark is? Are you sure?” He's staring at me with his hands palm open in front of him, like I'm going to physically give him some answer that makes sense of this. “Of course you're sure! Well. That’s— Joanie will be—”

“Horrified?” 

“Scared, Peter. She doesn't like how you are with the other kids.” 

That's bluntness for him and blitheness for me. In Candor, we believe parents shouldn't lie to their children. What a joke that is. 

“I'm not going to hurt her.” I tap my knuckles against the kitchen table, and think about what it is I owe her. Hurting her wouldn't strike equal. 

“Why not?”

My eyes fly up to my old man. He's being serious. Entire days can go by with me forgetting that he sees me, and then he’ll go and ask something like that. “I owe her something else.” 

He nods. “She’s your Mark.” My dad says everything like it’s simple. This time, it’s about a wrong as he could get. Prior’s my Mark. _Mine._ I don't want her. I don't want to be be done with her, either. What’s five days? I want to play with her. The sweet-voiced thing won’t work with her. I can still play, still make her suffer. What would she look like, broken?

What would it be like in Erudite? I'm clever. Clever enough to bullshit their tests. Maybe. I lean my chair on its back two legs, hating that I thought about it for even a second. Dauntless is where I’m meant to be. I didn’t need to kill a dog in a sim to know that. “I hate Stiffs.”

My old man laughs. Earthquakes have been started by quieter things. I’m immediately irritated. “What?”

Dad just keeps on with that booming laugh. My eyes flick to the doorway, but Ern doesn’t appear to moan about being woken up. 

“ _What?_ ”

He makes a wide gesture that could mean just about anything. “Invite her over!”

My chair smacks down hard on the kitchen floor. I realise my mouth is hanging open and snap it shut. “She’s a _Stiff._ ”

“She’s still your Mark, son, and I’m still your father.” The laughter’s gone now. He’s got his stern voice on. “Invite her over!” 

I cough, to see if that’ll get rid of the dryness in my mouth. It doesn’t. “I’m still transferring to Dauntless.”

Dad frowns at me. “I want to meet her, Peter. You owe me that much. Your mother, too. She’ll want to have words with this girl about what you’re like.”

My shoulders tighten. I’m fully aware of what Mom thinks I’m ‘like.’ 

He must be reading into my body language, because he keeps on. “I know you don’t believe in the tenets of Candor, but your mother and I do. She thinks there’s something wrong with you, and she feels compelled to pass that onto your Mark, as I feel compelled to tell you that I don’t think there’s that much wrong with you.” He clasps a hand to my shoulder and gives a squeeze. “It’s for the best, son. It doesn’t mean we love you any less than your brother, we just like him more since he’s like us... Peter?”

I don’t have to look at the glasstops to know I’m flushing red. I try to arrange my features so that when I lift my head up to look at him, I don’t look how I feel. Judging by the pitying expression on my old man’s face, it didn’t work. I know what he’s waiting for. I give myself two breaths, and then I say it. “Thank you for your honesty.”

He smiles at me, nods, and picks his pen back up to go back to work. Conversation over. It draws my attention to his own right wrist. Unlike mine, it’s bare. The SoulMark system came in after he and my mom had got married.

I kick the chair away and walk back out of the house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like Tris, I wondered if Peter's parents know what kind of person he is. Which got me wondering about what kind of people they are...


	9. innocence for dinner

** **

** 4 DAYS UNTIL THE CHOOSING CEREMONY: BEATRICE **

I go to school the next day convinced that Peter is going to do _something_ to get back at me for turning him out of my house. But he doesn't. Not yesterday, and not today. I see him a couple of times, walking in between the same barrel-chested boy and snarl-mouthed girl, but he doesn't pay any attention to me. He looks right through me. I lift my chin up when I see him, just in case this time will be different (I don't want him to think I'm cowed by him). It's not. He sweeps past me and to the buses, gesturing widely in the way Candors do, and I'm annoyed with myself for watching him go.

"He your Mark?"

I look up at the question, mostly sure it's not for me. People don't ask Abnegations questions that don't start with 'can you'. Definitely not about something as personal as Marks. But the voice sounded close to my ear. 

The Dauntless who I showed my Mark to is sitting high up on the school's statue, flipping a bottle cap. He sees me notice him, and nods. "Yeah, you. That Candor yours?"

"No." I say, no hesitation. The thought of Peter being in any way mine is so repellent it's easy to talk when it perhaps shouldn't be. "I don't have anyone."

The Dauntless boy jumps down from his perch like it's no more than a foot, and slides into step beside me. He's still handsome, but he looks worse for wear compared to a few days ago. He might even be wearing the same clothes. He smells of something harsh, like carpet cleaner. 

He doesn't say anything, but I still feel the need to correct myself. "I don't want anyone."

He scratches at his eyebrow and doesn't smile. He breathes too close to my ear and I realise it's not carpet cleaner he smells of, but alcohol. "Lucky you."

I don't know what to say to that. I have to say or do _something_. He's Dauntless and he's talking to me. 

Normally when I feel this kind of uncomfortable it's because I'm failing at being an Abnegation. That makes me think, and I dig into my bag for a small packet of food. There isn't any—I walked instead of taking the bus this morning, and saw some of the Factionless. "Here." I hold out my own packet of mints for him.

He stares at it for long enough that I look up at his face to check his reaction. His lips are twitching, unable to settle on a definite reaction.“You saying something about my breath, Stiff?”

Unlike Peter, he says ‘Stiff’ without any rancour. Almost like we’re friends and he came up with it as a nickname just for me. That must be why I feel okay turning my head away from him and saying, “I thought Dauntless believed actions speak louder than words.”

He makes this noise that’s not quite a laugh, and pokes me in the shoulder. When I look at him, he’s grinning. “I’m Uriah.” He shoves his hand out at me.

I grasp his hand and try to not let go too fast or hold it too softly—I don’t want to be weak in front of Uriah—though I fail at both. Touching people so casually doesn’t feel natural. “Beatrice.”

He’s looking at me expectantly. I don't know what for.

"What?" I know I sound defensive. An Abnegation wouldn't dream of demanding answers, an Abnegation wouldn't feel the need to defend themselves (A Dauntless would).

Uriah hasn't taken his eyes off me. I don't know if he's trying to unnerve me, but I straighten my spine out anyway. It could be that that makes him laugh. "I had a bet you'd walk away from me within the minute."

I know bets are a regular form of entertainment among them, beaten only by their fascination with dares. I've caught snatches of the terms before, in classes when the teacher isn't paying attention, and this one doesn't seem like much. Usually it's based around some feat of bravery or humiliation. I hitch my bag higher on my shoulder and glance around. People lining up for buses are looking at us and whispering. Not the Dauntless, who don't take the buses anyway. Whatever this bet is, it's not about my public humiliation. Dauntless don't embarrass people from other Factions without other Dauntless around to watch and cheer them on.

"They think we're Marked up." Uriah says. He doesn't sound bothered by it. He doesn't sound anything. The laughter from just now has already gone. I realise that since we stopped to shake hands, neither of us have moved. He's staring past the buses to where the train tracks are and turning a bottle cap over in his hands. Uriah's over a foot taller than me, stronger, muscled, kitted out in the black pants and ink that is typical to the Dauntless. I shouldn't feel like he needs anyone's protection, let alone mine.

"Who was the bet with?"

The sunlight that shifts across his face is the brightest thing he's wearing; the curl of his lips is too bitter to be a smile. "Myself." 

My mother would want me to ask him if he wants to air his troubles (Would she still if she knew it was a Dauntless? The answer comes to me in an instant: my mother would want me to offer help to anyone who seemed to need it). My tongue feels heavy just thinking about asking a Dauntless if they want to _talk_ about their feelings, even a Dauntless as friendly as Uriah seems to be. 

I have to do something. I wrack my brain for what might cheer a Dauntless, and the only things that come to mind are wild things, ridiculous ones that an Abnegation shouldn't even be able to conceive of. 

But I'm not Abnegation. According to Tori and the Aptitude Test, I never was.

"Uriah." Though it feels uncomfortable, I set my hand gently on top of his. The expression on his face is a strange one, like like he thought he'd never hear his own name again. 

"Yeah?" 

I wiggle the bottle cap he's been playing with out with my fingers and grasp it tight in a fist. "Come get it."

And I run. 

Behind me, I hear Uriah's 'what' of surprise dissolving into cuss words and laughter. I can't tell the sound of his boots slamming on to the ground from the thrumming in my own ears. I don't care. I feel crazy and I'm grinning like I am.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished writing this and doing the HTML and posting from my phone since my laptop is being annoying, so if anything looks odd, that's why! 
> 
> This chapter was for a few reasons, the most obvious one being because dear god does Tris need friends. Next chapter: Peter vs the problem of getting the Stiff girl to come to dinner.


	10. pour something in my cup

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO, I finally managed to get over how 'sigh' I am over the format I've made for this fic, and just fuckin' write the next chapter. Thanks to [PeterTheProblematic (GoWithHappiness)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GoWithHappiness/pseuds/PeterTheProblematic) for providing ALL THE INSPIRATION via updating her awesome af Peter/Tris fic. If you've not checked out their stuff already then, man, you need to do that.

**3 DAYS UNTIL THE CHOOSING CEREMONY:**

****PETER** **

****

****

Molly wants the three of us to corner the Stiff. This just goes to show, once again, that Molly can be as thick as pigshit when she puts her mind to it.

"You're not going _soft_." She snarls at me, eyes hard, fingers clenched; she knows better than to knot her hands into fists around me, not if she's not going to use them. Unlike Drew, Molly doesn't always ask questions like statements—she's too crude for that—but sometimes, when she's feeling actually _vulnerable_ , she will do. On this, I can't blame her too much. Questions are a dangerous thing in Candor, when you have parents like all of ours. Statements are safer. 

What I can blame her for is the aforementioned stupidity. "I'm not going soft in the head." I tell her, making only a cursory effort to keep my irritation in check. It annoys me when she questions me like this and I don't care if she knows it. "Ganging up on her would be unnecessary. Stiffs will do whatever the fuck they're told anyway."

I'm aware of Drew nodding, even though he's dragging his feet behind the two of us so I can't strictly _see_ him. What else is he going to do but agree with me? 

"Since when's _unnecessary_ a bad thing?" The disbelief in Molly's voice is plain; I'm not all the way expecting it. I allow myself a handful of seconds to revisit the plan as it stands, let myself consider if maybe Molly is right and the gentle approach is the dumb one. True, Stiffs will do whatever they're told, but they're also stupidly _proper_. This will probably be the only time she's ever been to another teenager's house. The sugar approach is the one that makes sense.

"Since it doesn't get me what I want." I say, and I say it evenly. Calmness has settled on me like winter snow and when I breathe, I feel fresh, confident. "Wait for me at Drew's. I'll be over when it's all done." 

I walk away from them, and go to ask a Stiff to come to dinner.

**DREW**

Peter walks away from us. Then Molly scoffs. She walks away from me. I don't walk away from anyone. Today's one of those days where I don't feel like I exist. It's happening more lately. Pressing my shoes down against the ground makes my toes cramp. That should help. I have toes—I exist.

"You comin'?" The sun's bright enough that my head hurts. I squint. Hunch my shoulders. My neck cricks as I turn to her. Molly's waiting for me. Her face's blank, like mine. That won't last.

I tip my head down and drag my feet over to where she's waiting.

"Why didn't he tell his dad that I'm his Mark?" Molly starts walking and starts in at the same time. Guess we're going there. Fun. "That would've been easier. His mom wouldn't want to have dinner with me."

Would've been easier if they were Marks. Don't think it would've been better. Not for me.

"What's he even doing with a Stiff for his Mark?" She's confused. Now Peter's not here, she can sound it. No snark. "D'you think his Mark has to be someone he can torture properly? He can't do that with me."

I roll my shoulders up further by my ears. My eyes are already on the gravel of the gardens we're tramping all over.

Molly snorts. "Yeah, he can't do that with me. That's all it is. This Mark shit is bull. His whole plan's bull. Why not just ask the Stiff and beat on her if she tries to talk about what they say?"

He doesn't want to be embarrassed in front of her. I open my mouth a little, like I'm going to say it out loud. A flash of Peter's face going tight with tension shuts my mouth with a click.

"I don't think he's even going to do any damage to the other Stiff. Either of them. Not even his tricky feely kind, the way he was talking about sugar..." A glob of Molly's spit lands between us, on a yellow flower I stamp on for her as we go past.

"Stiffs don't want sex." I mutter it, half-hoping she won't hear and won't want to keep talking-but- not-talking about how Peter isn't her Mark. "Neither does Peter."

"Peter wants sex." Molly sneers, but doesn't say anything else. Guess she's thinking about how Peter's never given much of a shit about having sex with anyone, far as she knows. The quiet goes on and on. We might get back to my parents' house with no more talking.

"So that's it? He's with a Stiff because he doesn't wanna get stiff with anyone?"

Guess not.

Fun.

**URIAH**

I’m up on the highest wall Abnegation has to offer (noooot that high, but the train tracks and junkyards are Dauntless ground, and I don’t want that today), chilling with my flask. I think about calling over to B, but I figure we’re not close enough yet for me to be full on myself at her. ‘Sides, the Mouth _is_ her Mark. Best to give them some space. 

Still, I keep on eye on them. A little in case B seems like she wants back up, but mostly because I didn’t saunter on over to the colorless part of town entirely to avoid my brother and Lynn and—Other people. I wanted to see B, maybe hang out, tell her about my Nose-level of genius plan which… I might be the only one to need now. Ha. Ha. HA. 

I saaaaay: one tequila, two tequila, three—“Oh, shit.” I wipe at my chin with the back of my hand and lick the drink that I just dribbled over myself off it, and jump off the wall, landing with my knees properly bent. I didn’t get a Dauntless-Amity-Erudite result by not figuring out the best thing to do would be wait until B’s Mark’s fucked off before I catch up with the definitely-not-B Stiff girl he was talking to. 

See, only reason I noticed them in the first place was I thought he was talking to B. Stiffs look a lot alike from a distance of more than 2 feet, even B, for all she’s a pineapple among a whole load of apples. And I’m thinking, what’d Mouth like him be doing talking to a Stiff who isn’t his Mark? _Right._ Ipso facto, _there’s_ B and _there’s_ the guy who she said she doesn’t want as a Mark, chatting up a storm about dinner with his parents.

So what’s the pansycake doing talking about dinner with some Stiff that isn’t B?

**** ****

** BEATRICE **

My mom told me once that when you cook, you put your feelings into your food. It’s my turn to make dinner. It’s not going to turn out good, not with the with the Choosing Ceremony only two days away. I keep thinking about Peter. I don’t _want_ to, but it’s hard not to. He can’t choose Candor; he’s not honest at all, and whatever Candor’s Initiation is, it has to be about honesty. Amity and Abnegation are both laughable as choices, which leaves Erudite and Dauntless… Two of the Factions the test says I’m suited for. 

I smack the dough with both fists, needing a way to get out at least some of my frustration. I don’t want to be in the same Faction as Peter, I don’t want to leave my family, I don’t want to stay.

I bang at the counter again, and it’s loud—louder than it should be. I look up, and _Uriah_ is standing by the back door, grinning at me and waving.

My heart pounding, I rush over to the door and get the door open—I expect my hands to fumble with the lock (the one that I use, and no one else in the family does), but instead I’m steady, and it falls openly smoothly. “What’re you doing here?” The decision to keep my voice low must be a strong one; that’s the only reason I can think of that my voice doesn’t hitch up at the sight of 15 year old Abigail Smith nestled next to Uriah.

She blushes furiously at the sight of me; I blush at the sight of her so close to Uriah. She steps away from him, who lets his arm drop from her shoulder with an ease that makes me think that despite all Abnegation values, she liked being so close to him. “Are you—” I look from Abigail to Uriah, remembering with sudden clarity that the surname on his wrist was _Pine_ , not _Smith_.

Uriah seems to realise what conclusion I was coming to, as he shakes his head, “Nah, nothing like that. I needed help finding your house, and Abi helped me out.” He coasts his fingers through his hair and smiles at her, warm, rather than the flirtatiousness I’ve already come to expect from him. “Do you want to tell her about what he said, or should I?” 

I have even less of an idea of what’s going on than I did before he’d said anything, and something about the way Abigail copies Uriah in brushing her fingertips through her own hair makes me realise that I’m standing in the doorway with a Dauntless and an Abnegation, and I’m not even offering refreshments. The face of my mother reprimanding me lightly flashes through my mind, and I duck my head, “Please come in, we have juice.”

“Thank you.” Abigail says quietly, but doesn’t make to come in. Neither does Uriah, although I meant the invitation for both of them. “But I must go home to help preparing my sister for her Mark’s Welcoming. Uriah said I only needed to tell you—” Her eyes skitter to Uriah, who I realise only now has backed off to give us some room to talk, and the blush comes back to her face and her voice shrinks to only a little louder than the wind, “A Candor named Peter Hayes asked me to come to dinner tomorrow at 6. He asked me to pretend to be his Mark, so that his parents would give him his blessing to transfer to Abnegation… He said if he had a Mark who was Abnegation, rather than being blank, they’d be more understanding.”

My fingernails are digging crescents in my skin, and focusing on those tiny pinpricks of pain is helping me keep my calm. It is. It is. 

“I agreed.” Abigail continues quickly, a look of uncertain guilt passing over her face, “That was before Uriah found me, and told me he does have a Mark…” There’s only one reason she would be telling me this, but she politely skirts around outright saying to me that I’m his Mark; this, unlike her ease with Uriah touching her, is Abnegation behaviour that’s familiar to me. “And he was Candor…” She trails off, and her eyes are on me, and she’s worried and baffled, and I should assure her, I should shake her, I should—

"Go to dinner, B." I look up at Uriah, startled as much by him speaking as the widening grin on his face, "I would."

** PETER **

****

****

“So?” Molly demands. She doesn’t even wait until I’ve got settled on Drew’s bed, displacing Drew to his favoured perch by the window, where he can smoke without making the whole place stink. “Did it work?”

I toe one of my boots off, then the other, before I scoff my answer. Nothing wrong with building some suspense. “What do you think? It worked like a dream. Joanie and Prior won’t be able to pick each other out of a line up.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come on, like Peter was actually going to ASK TRIS to dinner with his parents.
> 
> Anyway, I did extra POVs in this chapter because... a) it was the only way I could get it to work b) it was fun!
> 
> Next chapter should be the dinner with ~~Abigail~~ Beatrice, and therefore very fun for.. well, nobody involved, let's be real. Noooot sure when it'll be, but hopefully sometime this damn month.


End file.
